


Try, Conversion, Blowjob

by Sparks Is Not Appropriate (TheSparksofMagic)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rugby, Bisexual Connie, Biting, Bottom Marco Bott, Bottoming from the Top, Dirty Talk, French-Speaking Jean Kirstein, It's basically them drooling over each other during a game then they fuck, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover, Minor Sasha Blouse/Connie Springer, No knowledge of rugby needed, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Six Nations AU, They draw blood at one point but it's nothing major, Top Jean Kirstein, Welsh Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSparksofMagic/pseuds/Sparks%20Is%20Not%20Appropriate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a stigma against being gay in sport, but especially in the high contact sport of rugby.<br/>Welsh flanker, Marco Bodt, tries to stay under the radar, but when he meets the obnoxiously flirtatious french flyhalf Jean Kirschtein, all his professionalism goes straight out of the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try, Conversion, Blowjob

**Author's Note:**

> loOK THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE, 2K WORDS OF FLUFFY PORN  
> not 8k wrds with some strangely angsty section in the middle and then bam, rough, dirty locker room porn. what can i say. I blame fujoshichan69 and overmyfreckledbody, they helped spawn this monster (and thanks for the beta Fuj!) and though it was SUPPOSED to be done yesterday for Jean's b-day I spent too long on Reddit searching for French dirty talk. So have it now, instead.

_ BBC Coverage: RBS 6 nations, the penultimate week of the tournament and the decider for Wales’ tournament win with a match against France. Live from Paris, we are here with BBC sports correspondent Darius Zackerly. _

_ Zackerly: Hello, and welcome to the 2016 6 nations Wales versus France game. I’m here with ex-Wales Captain Erwin Smith and ex-French Captain Levi Ackermann, with 20 minutes before the start of the match, which is sure to be an excellent game. _

_ Smith: It will definitely be fast paced, that’s for sure. With Braun as captain for Wales, they’re going to be pounding the pitch. He’s been pushing for the grand slam with his retirement from professional rugby next year, so the team are going to be playing hard and fast. _

_ Zackerly: How do you feel about Wales winning the grand slam? Do you think they can do it? _

_ Smith: Of course! This team is the strongest I’ve seen in many years. With their loss during last year’s final match I’m sure they’re more than determined to make up for it this year. _

_ Zackerly: I certainly agree! Now, Levi, how do you feel the French team have been playing this year? They’ve only lost the one match to Scotland, and only by one penalty point. _

_ Ackermann: They’ve played well, yes. Yount as captain is new, so the team is not as coherent as it could be yet. But he is good, and we should be difficult to beat. _

_ Zackerly: The team is very new, isn’t it? _

_ Ackermann: Yes, lots of young players, but not new per se. Kirschtein is 24 and has been with the team as fly-half for 3 years nearly. Lucas and Fay haven’t played professionally before but I have high hopes for them. _

_ Zackerly: Well both teams are warming up on the pitch. _

_ [Camera transcript: Two men talking, the shorter gesturing wildly. Both are wearing red, the Welsh colours.] _

_ Zackerly: Reiner Braun, captain, talking with his second David Potts. There’s been talk in the papers of Braun not playing this match due to last week’s injury to his head, but he’s obviously fit to play fine. _

_ Smith: Yes, he’s a strong man. During the match last week against England there was suspected concussion but that was just a rumour. Braun was only taken to hospital for safety. _

_ Ackermann: He has a very hard head, no? _

_ Smith: He’s a prop; he has to! _

_ [Camera transcript: Three French players stretching and laughing. One runs his hand through his hair and grins at the camera, waving.] _

_ Zackerly: That’s Kirschtein there, waving at the camera. His drop-goal statistics are incredible, are they not, Levi? _

_ Ackermann: He is very talented. His range and power is particularly special, although his angle skills need some polish. _

_ Smith: In the Ireland/France match he scored a drop-goal to win the match within the last minute of play. _

_ Zackerly: It was an incredible shot. _

_ Ackermann: That is true. _

_ Zackerly: Since we were talking about rumours previously, there’s been one about Kirschtein taking over the role of captain after Yount. Do you think he could make it as captain, Levi? _

_ Ackermann: His attitude is harsh and he has been carded more than once before. But he is a natural leader. I believe he will do very well if he does take captaincy. _

_ Zackerly: Indeed. _

_ [Camera transcript: Pan to the whole field; the players are heading back inside.] _

_ Zackerly: Well, we have 5 minutes before the match starts and the national anthems are sung. Erwin, Levi, any last points before it begins? _

_ Smith: This should be a good game, and with Jaeger not playing with Kirschtein there shouldn’t be any bust-ups again. _

_ Ackermann: I am cheering for France, but if Wales do win they would be worthy winners. They have played fantastically over the past few weeks. _

_ Zackerly: That they have! Now here come the players onto the pitch, Wales in red, France in navy. _

_ [Camera transcript: Player profiles, Wales, line-up for match. Aled Price, Gawaint Rees, Reiner Braun, Cedwyn Morgan, Rhys Griffin, Tristan James, Marco Bodt, Nick Argall, Arthur Merriweather, Percy Cooper, Cecil Davies, Thomas Evans, David Potts, Llywelyn Martin and Bryn Jones. _

_ Player profiles, France, line-up for match. Mattieu Yount, Adrien Collet, Liam Devaux, Marius Legros, Pierre Regnier, Maxime Godard, Isaac Soler, Félix Bois,Anis Roth, Jean Kirschtein, Lois Pinson, Yohan Lamotte, Luc Grimaud, Idriss Frey and Miguel Marquis. _

_ Pan around the audience and across both teams. The national anthem of Wales, then France play. Both teams spread out across the field when they are over.] _

_ Zackerly: The referee is tossing the coin to see which team will have the kick to start the match, and yes, it looks like France have the starting kick. Yount has the ball now, and Kirschtein is in position, so without further ado, this is the official start of the France versus Wales match... _

  
  


Marco's heart was pounding as he ran out onto the main pitch, dressed in red and his ears strapped to the side of his head by tape. The noise was deafening, his home crowd waving in a vaguely blurry mess of red and green, with spots of red, white and blue for the French thrown in amongst it. Behind him, Nick was swearing profusely in Welsh.

"Shut up," Marco muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "We're on camera you idiot, it's 4 in the afternoon. Wee kids might be watching - scrap that, are watching."

"I'm going to throw up." he said instead, still in Welsh. Marco raised an eyebrow, but a cheery voice yelled over in reply before he could say anything, daubed in a thick French accent.

"He looks like he's about to vomit! Chuck him a bucket before 'e gets puke on the fuckin' field." 

Marco whipped around. The man was jogging on the spot a few metres back, gesturing towards Nick and miming someone throwing up. When he saw Marco looking at him, he winked and waved, then ran off to his position for the start of the match. Number 10 - fly-half then, Marco thought, trying to ignore the way the man's hips and shoulders undulated under his skin-tight shirt, and the way his arse filled out his shorts.

Fucking skinny fly-halfs and their stupid, attractive little bodies that he'd just end up bruising after tackles.

 

Jean had noticed Bodt from the beginning, when he'd watched games with the team to judge their different skills and tactics. The flanker was hot, all dark hair and dark, smouldering eyes and farmer's tan and sunshine freckles, and yes, he was more than a little grateful for those goddamn thighs. Luc had joked that they'd be able to crush a watermelon and all Jean had been able to think about even after that was putting his head between them.

Rugby was a high contact sport, and hell, Jean wanted contact all over with Marco fuck-me-in-my-gorgeous-arse Bodt.

When he'd seen Bodt talking to one of his teammates, he hadn't been able to resist a taunt, just to see the man's reaction. There was something in the man's gaze, something contemplative and a little appraising, especially with that quirk to his mouth, that kicked Jean's stomach to his throat. Maybe... Maybe...

And then, Yount was shouting at him and dragging him out of his own contemplation before the ball hit him in the face, and he was in the zone. He would deal with Bodt when he dealt with him; he had a game to win.

 

_ BBC coverage by Sports Correspondent Darius Zackerly, live from the stadium. _

_ Zackerly: Kirschtein kicks beautifully, sending the ball right into the Welsh end of the field. Davies runs after it, and he's caught it nice and neat. He passes to Evans, who's tackled by Legros to the knees. Griffin takes the ball, and passes to James, who - ouch! - is taken down by Lamotte. Godard and Soler are behind, and no, despite a close call they haven't managed a turnover. Bodt removes the ball, and passes to Morgan straight away, but he's tackled by Devaux and he's knocked it on. The referee has awarded a penalty to France for Morgan's knock-on. Braun is not going to be happy with Evans for that only a few minutes into the match. France have the scrum and Roth has the ball ready to feed. Aaaand the players are setting into position... _

 

Marco hunkered down into his place at the back of the scrum, planting his feet firmly into the ground and grabbing onto Rhys' shorts and thighs to stabilise them all. Every muscle was tensed to run, to break away when the scrum fell to pieces or the ball was removed.

The grunts and mutters of French were indecipherable despite his rudimentary French skills and he peered into the mass of limbs and sweat and grass and mud to see the ball on the floor. He heard the whistle blow to release the ball and saw the flash of mostly-clean white between Rhys' legs. He pushed up and forwards, steadying Rhys and Cedwyn even as Reiner swore in Welsh and shouted commands to keep them moving. But he recognised the cheer of the audience as the ball exited the scrum and unwound his arms carefully from Rhys' thighs, thundering towards the scrum-half even as he passed the ball to the fucking fly-half, who was still grinning and tearing off in the direction of the centre of the field.

He pounded down the pitch after the man, and leapt for his hips to tackle him to the ground even as the man turned to his side. With an almost casual flick of his wrists. he sent the ball flying towards some team-mate or other, but Marco had momentum now and couldn't stop. He crashed into the man and sent them both to the floor, the man twisting beneath him to prevent his head from hitting the mud directly (and the body beneath him was hot to the touch as Marco's hands clasped bare skin stretched taut over sharp hip-bones, abs solid and rippling as the man breathed heavily).

They were caught up in each other. Marco tried not to think too hard as the man wriggled and dislodged Marco's hands, and then Marco was crawling forwards to continue playing and the man whispered "My name, it's Jean. Jean Kirschtein." when Marco's thighs were bracketing his head. His voice was rough, French accent oozing sex appeal whilst the rasp from his harsh breathing sent dark shivers down his spine to Marco's dick as he imagined what the man would sound like wrapped in his bed-sheets at the hotel the teams were staying in.

He couldn't run fast enough.

 

There were freckles splattered liberally over Bodt's thighs. Jean wanted to bite each one, wanted to lick and suck and kiss bruises into his skin that weren't caused by slamming repeatedly into hard earth. Then, just to make everything that bit more like a temptation, they were surrounding his face, blocking his view of anything but Bodt's shorts - more specifically, his crotch, because tight shorts and what looked to Jean like a reasonable sized cock? Yeah, that was definitely a combination he liked.

He couldn't help drooling. Just a bit.

Much like he couldn't help muttering, "My name, it's Jean. Jean Kirschtein.". Just to see what Bodt would do.

He was definitely satisfied by the blush he could practically feel emanating from the man's whole body, and the way his butt jiggled as he ran towards the main area of play.

"Kirschtein! Fucking concentrate!" yelled Bois, and Jean jumped up to his feet, sneering at the number 8 and running after Bodt's retreating figure. Focus! He had to focus.

 

_ BBC coverage: reporter Darius Zackerly _

_ Zackerly: Bodt's tackled Kirschtein to the floor even as Kirschtein passes to Pinson, and they're down. Pinson is down, and Potts and Martin are attempting a turn over, which is aided by.... _

_ [Camera transcript: View of the whole field, where France have possession. Two men appear to be fumbling out of a tackle fall. Their faces are very close together.] _

 

"Oh my God, Sasha, are they going to kiss?!" Connie shook his girlfriend's shoulder, pointing in vague circles to Marco and the french fly-half, who Sasha kept calling Javert. Sasha tore her eyes away from the ball and then squawked in laughter, earning them a strange look from the group of young french girls sitting next to them.

"Marco's as red as a red thing, bless! Look, he's moving awful slow - he's far too happy sitting on Javert's face."

Connie sighed. "I'd love to sit on that man's face. Bloody hell, have you seen it?"

"Shut your bisexual mouth, Mr Springer, you have a fianceé and she's sitting right here!" Sasha quipped. Blushing, Connie took a sip of tea from his flask and slumped back down into his seat. 

Sasha grabbed hold of his hand and said brightly, “Bet you a tenner the French boy’s not straight.”, and Connie spat his tea over the couple sat in front of them as he spluttered with laughter. 

 

_ BBC coverage: reporter Darius Zackerly _

_ Zackerly: … Bodt takes possession of the ball in the French half after a beautiful turnover by Cooper and Martin, who really is more of a tank than a man, and passes to Merriweather. Merriweather is tackled by Bois, but Wales maintain possession and Argall takes the ball, throwing back to Price, who- yes, who’s managed to find a hole in the french defence and is running towards the french try line! Oh, and he’s tackled by Regnier, but the Welsh are now inside the French half of the pitch and looking strong… _

 

Marco winced as Aled hit the grass with an audible thump, tackled by the virtual mountain that was Regnier (Marco recognised him from last year’s tournament - they’d won, but only on a penalty point from Regnier committing a high tackle. He’d rather Aled not be sent to hospital with a broken neck). 

He ran backwards into the line-up, waiting to receive the ball when Tristan took it from between Aled’s legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the french fly-half ( _ Jean _ , his brain whispered,  _ his name’s Jean _ ) frowning and running his hand through his hair. He was amazed how much muscle could be on such a slim body, because  _ Jean  _ had managed to physically move Marco whilst pinned Marco’s full weight, and yet Jean couldn’t have been more than half of Marco’s size. 

Marco’s hands could’ve wrapped around around his waist completely with the way it tapered from his shoulders into an almost perfect caricature of an athlete. 

“Bodt! Pay attention!” Reiner’s booming voice startled him into unconscious thought and he caught the ball heading towards him out of reflex more than anything. A quick glance around told him that, yes, he was definitely going to be body slammed within the next few seconds, but there was an opening to the left, if he could just… 

Marco feinted a throw to the right, then charged towards the opening, darting around one slow moving prop with a twirl that suited a dancer more than a rugby player. Sasha would be proud, he thought, and then someone huge was blocking his path and he braced for impact. 

 

_ BBC coverage: reporter Darius Zackerly _

_ Zackerly: ...Bodt manoeuvres out of the way of both Yount and Devaux, but Frey stops him with what will probably be a very painful tackle. He’s made a good 7 metres, and hasn’t been turned over, so Wales are still in possession and Davies has the ball, passing to Braun…  _

 

The next half an hour of play was brutal and fast-paced, with each team conceding a few penalties, and both kickers sending them easily over the bars. 

Marco hadn’t been able to focus at all once Jean had scored the French penalty kick. The images of Jean’s pert arse wiggling as he lined his whole body up with the bars, cocking his head side to side with his hands resting just under the curve of his arse as Jean tried to figure out the angle were seared into Marco’s brain forever, and every glimpse of Jean running or smiling or gritting his teeth in concentration sent the memories dancing to the forefront of his mind again. 

Which was not useful, because Marco was supposed to marking Jean for at least half of the match. He kept having to  _ tackle  _ the man, which meant that he kept having to touch those lean muscles and to watch as those pretty, golden eyes flickered up and down his body.

 

By half time, when the score was 9:6 to France, Marco knew that Reiner had had enough of Marco’s distracted playing.

Once they had all piled into the changing room for a tactics talk, Reiner pointed to one of the younger substitutes and said to him in an overly jovial tone, “You’re subbing with Bodt, since he went down with a right crack somewhere around 20 minutes ago and I’m worried that the idiot has a concussion and is just pretending to be fine. Marco, stop playing the rom-com hero. I can’t have players not at their best and you’re _ definitely not at your best _ .” Reiner sent a pointed glare towards Marco, who felt more than a little chastised. Reiner wasn’t handing him the third degree yet, but he hadn’t told Marco that he couldn’t play the second half beforehand. This was his punishment. 

When Reiner had finished planning the second half down to a science, the man dragged Marco into the corridor outside, ignoring Marco’s squeaks of pain and whimpered protests. Marco quailed under Reiner’s harsh glare. 

“Look,” he started, but Reiner cut him off with a long sigh, pinching the bridge of nose with his thumb and forefinger. 

“Marco. I just saved your pride in there, don’t make excuses or whatever. I saw you and that Kirschtein guy, and I actually  _ do  _ have eyes. You and him… Just be more careful, more  _ subtle,  _ okay, because I can’t pretend you’ve injured yourself if you do start grinding on him in the middle of a match or snog him or something  _ equally stupid _ .” Reiner slumped against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, expression blank despite the passion in his voice. Marco joined him on the floor. 

“I get it,” Reiner continued suddenly, startling Marco with the rough edge to his already thick accent. A niggling voice in the back of Marco’s head told him exactly where this conversation was going.  “I  _ get it.  _ But you can’t be gay in sports, not quite just yet, not here. Maybe the french are more accepting but here? Here, you have to stay secret.”

Marco tensed. “So… You’re…?” He couldn’t finish the question, because Reiner’s voice seemed so dull and matter of fact, but Marco knew him well enough to know that Reiner was a passionate man. This blunt stating of facts was unsettling. 

Reiner nodded, still staring at the ceiling. “His name’s Bert,” he said, “Known him since I was a lad. Lived in the same village as him for my whole life. I’d do anything for him.”

Marco’s hands were shaking when he put one on Reiner’s shoulder, squeezing softly. “I can’t imagine… I’ve done  _ stuff _ with guys - loads of stuff - but I’ve never actually had a… ”

Reiner laughed without humour. “Never had a boyfriend? Just lusted from a distance, thought and wanted and dreamed, only everyone assumes you’re into girls or the boys aren’t… into other boys? Or were they ‘straight boys’,” Reiner made air quotes with his fingers, snorting a dry laugh, “who were ‘just curious’?”  Marco nodded, the motion jerky and nervous. Reiner looked at him, at the scrape across his nose and the bit of tape peeling off his head that was curling to join the mass of dark waves that made Marco’s hair. He looked, and smiled, tired and wan. 

“Marco. I know I’m subbing you. And I’m sorry you won’t get to play the end of the game. But I’m not letting you fuck up my game - don’t look at me like that with those puppy dog eyes, you know it’s the truth - and if you can get something out of your system in the process you’ll be on form for next week against Scotland. Go talk to the guy once this is done, yeah? Opportunities for love don’t come as often as opportunities to play for Wales - and God knows you’ve done that more than once. You’re an old hat at rugby - take a chance at being a young man.” With a wry smile, Reiner heaved himself up onto his feet and held out a hand for Marco. Marco slapped it away and jumped up in one fluid motion, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh, old and wise one,” he taunted, trying to inject some teasing into his tone past the lump in the back of his throat making it difficult for him to breathe, “Just because your bones creak doesn’t mean mine do.”

Reiner slapped him on the chest and told him to “Fuck off and find your french boy!” before jogging back to the changing rooms. 

 

 

_ BBC coverage: reporter Darius Zackerly _

_ Zackerly: This is BBC 2, the last 6 nations match for this week, and the start of the second half of the Wales v France game! There have been a few changes to the line-up. Marco Bodt, Welsh openside flanker number 7, replaced by Ross Byston. Jean Kirschtein, French fly half number 10, replaced by Claude Bonnefoy… _

Marco ripped his earbuds out of his ears, staring wild eyed at the tinny voice of some stuck-up English reporter still squeaking from the speakers who’d said that  _ Jean wasn’t the second half playing either.   _ Sat on the team bench on the side of the pitch, watching the players move into position, Marco threw his phone back into his pocket. He scanned across the edge of the pitch towards the French team benches, looking for any sign of Jean. When he couldn’t stop him, Marco turned to his coach, who was sat behind him. 

“Pixis,” he said, and the old man cocked his head, arms folded tightly. “Pixis, I need to go to the loo, I’ll be back in a bit.” Pixis raised one thin eyebrow, his moustache twitching as he suppressed a smile. 

“No problem, lad,” he said, “Don’t miss too much of the match getting lost and ending up somewhere near the french showers or something. They’re just down the corridor to the left of ours, labelled and all, but I know what you lads are like.”

Marco thanked Pixis and jogged back inside. He missed the conspiratorial wink and thumbs up Pixis shared with Reiner, who was watching Marco’s retreating figure with a sly grin. 

 

 

“Down the corridor to the left, down the corridor to the left - ah hah!” Marco skidded to a halt outside the double doors with a printed sign stuck haphazardly on the frosted window of one, which was written in french Marco only just understood. Then he stopped as his brain caught up with the rest of his body.

“Shit,” he muttered. Then louder, “ _ Shit! _ What am I  _ doing _ ?”

He was standing outside the  _ showers.  _ Where he’d been intending to… Marco sat down heavily, covering his face with the palms of his hands. 

He had no idea what he was intending to do. Flirt? Demand sex? Laugh everything off and back out of the room slowly, saying “Oops, sorry, wrong room!”? If Jean wasn’t in there, Marco was not only going to look like a pervert, but also like an idiot. 

A door creaked open from behind Marco, and a voice said, “ _ Marco _ ?”, tone incredulous. Marco raised his head and ended up staring directly up into the eyes of Jean  _ fucking  _ Kirschtein.

His arms were hanging limply at his sides and his jaw was slack, lips cracked open just enough for them to still be plump and pink. Marco blushed up to the roots of his hair, and could physically feel the heat rising off his face. He’d be surprised if his ears weren’t steaming like a character in one the Saturday morning cartoons he used to watch. 

“Marco...?” Jean asked again, and Marco stumbled to his feet, running a hand over the back of his neck and trying to hide the wince that followed as he smeared mud across his skin. 

“Hi! Um, hi, Jean. I was just- Just trying to- Um…” Marco trailed off as Jean squinted at him in confusion. 

“This is not your showers, yes?” Jean’s eyes were flickering up and down Marco’s body for the third time in the day. Marco put his hand out in front of him, opened his mouth to speak, then pressed his fist to mouth before he said something stupid again. Trying not to laugh at Marco’s gestures, Jean bit his lip and looked up at Marco from under his eyelashes, sweeping his hair up and to the side. 

Marco’s willpower crumbled and he had to try  _ very  _ hard to contain a whine. Fuck it, he thought, he’d come here for a reason, Jean looked like he wanted to eat Marco and he was determined to take this opportunity before he lost it forever. 

There was a thick silence between them. The corridor was still, the noise of the match only a dull background buzz. Marco steeled his churning nerves and took a step forward into Jean’s space, licking his lips and staring into the other man’s eyes. 

Jean’s pupils blew out and his mouth dropped open on a harsh exhale; an audible ‘Uh’ of obvious arousal that sent a bolt of heat down Marco’s spine. 

“Did you know...” Jean trailed off as Marco stepped closer to Jean, tipping his head down to maintain eye contact. Jean kept looking into Marco’s eyes even as he swallowed and spoke again, voice thick and accent pronounced. “Did you know, my whole team think you could crush a melon between your thighs?” 

Marco opened his mouth, then shut it again. “You- What?”

Jean reached out for Marco’s shirt, pulling him in until they were stood chest to chest. Their breaths were in time and every inhale caused them to touch. Desperate for more, Marco reached out a hand to the back of Jean’s neck, but didn’t touch him - not yet. Jean looked down at the bare inch of space between their bodies and grabbed Marco’s hips, causing Marco’s breath to catch in his throat. He yanked, pulling them together knee to shoulder. 

Marco’s mouth was moving before he could process what he was doing.

“You wanna put your head between them? Promise I’ll only squeeze a little.”

Jean  _ did  _ whine, and his fingers dug into Marco’s hips, knuckles white and probably leaving bruises in the shape of his hands. Marco couldn’t find it in him to care. 

“ _ Merde _ , yes, yes, Marco,  _ fuck-  _ let me kiss you?” Jean’s voice was breathless, pleading. Marco nodded, and Jean let go of his hips to curve them around Marco’s face, bringing them to the same level so their mouths could crash together in a messy, slick kiss. 

Jean tasted like blood and smelled like mud and sweat and Marco couldn’t get enough, twisting his hands into the longer hair on top of Jean’s head and hearing the sharp gasp that bought him. 

They were biting and sucking more than kissing, pulling on each other’s lips and Marco licked against Jean’s tongue and fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever done. Jean’s hands had left his face and were roaming all over his body, tugging at his shirt and shorts and digging into his biceps and thighs. He left them there, pushing hard at the taut muscle, and Marco pushed forwards into the touch. 

Jean groaned as the action slid Marco’s thigh between his legs.

 

Jean could not quite believe what was happening. He’d been about to have a shower, was about to clean the blood off his skin and probably have a long, slow wank to put Marco Bodt  _ out  _ of his head, when he’d found the man himself on his knees right in front of the french showers, despite the welsh ones being located not ten metres down the corridor. 

His feet had stopped before his brain could and he’d called out to Marco, and then somehow (don’t ask him how) they were flirting and Marco was all up in his space, with those eyelashes and those curls, and now they were kissing and Jean was definitely grinding on Marco. 

“M-Marco-” he gasped, running his mouth along Marco’s jawline as he spoke, “Marco, we are in public-”

Marco pushed down on the back of Jean’s head as he bit the side of his neck, tugging at the skin gently with his teeth. “Shit, yeah - the showers, we can. We… No-one will be in there?” Jean hummed and Marco wrenched himself away from Jean’s body, sprawling across the wall with his head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Check first,” he panted, “I’m not tumbling in there with you only to find some reserve shagging his girlfriend against the lockers.”

Jean closed his eyes, willing some of the fire that had exploded in his lower body to temper and nodded, not trusting his voice to work. He dragged his fingertips across Marco’s stomach where his shirt had risen up as he passed, feeling the hitch in Marco’s breath at the sensation. 

“Not into girls enough for a foursome then?” He muttered, trying to keep his tone teasing but with a edge he knew would drive Marco mad. Marco shook his head, bottom lip almost sucked completely into his mouth by how hard he was trying to not make any noise. 

“Good,” Jean whispered, “I want you all to myself. Want to… suck your dick. That is what you British lot say?”

Jean’s smile widened into a smirk when Marco moaned, low and desperation-laced, then he poked his head around the door of the changing room section, listening for sounds of movement or a running shower. There was nothing, but he still headed around the corner to the actual showers. It was empty, and Jean decided that he could… Set things up a bit whilst he was here. 

He opened his locker, rummaging through his bag for the condoms and lube he knew that Frey had stuffed into his bag during half-time with one hand and stripping his shirt off with the other. Setting them on the wooden slats of a bench, Jean toed off his shoes and socks until he was just in his shorts; they were barely clinging to his hips by how far his dick pushed them away from his waist. 

A rush of cold air sent a shockwave up his spine and he spun around to face Marco, who had peeked around the doorframe. Jean smirked, wiggling his fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion, toying with his waistband so that it pulled down just enough to reveal his happy trail in  _ all  _ its glory. 

Marco stepped inside the room. He leant on the doorframe, hand drifting over his crotch and the other propped up on the wall. 

 

Marco’s heart stopped as all the blood in his body hit his dick at once. Standing in front of him with the _ barest possible  _ minimum of fabric covering his dick was a God of gorgeous, pale, lean-muscled glory - or possibly a demon, because Marco was tempted to do all sorts of sinful things that would make his very Christian mother faint just by looking at Jean’s figure. 

Marco ripped his shirt over his head, revelling in the gasp that bought him from Jean, dropping it to the floor from the tip of his index finger. 

A strong hand wrapped around Marco’s wrist and Marco allowed himself to be dragged further into the room, which smelled like sweat and soap and something indefinable but generally musky. 

Jean manoeuvred them until the back of Marco’s knees pressed into the wooden panels of the bench running down the middle of the room, the bright bloom of pain as they collided making Marco hiss into Jean’s mouth, and Jean’s murmured apologies fell into a messy kiss when their lips brushed.

Guiding Marco’s hand into Jean’s hair, Jean sank to his knees, staring up into Marco’s eyes and dragging his tongue across his bottom lip, leaving it slick and red. Marco swallowed hard as he looked down, because from this angle he had an excellent view of Jean’s dick inside those shorts and he would rather not come the instant Jean touched him. 

Marco’s knees gave way the instant Jean pulled his shorts down anyway, and he landed on the bench with Jean sitting pretty between his obscenely spread legs. Jean raised an eyebrow and placed Marco’s other hand in his hair. It wasn’t soft or clean, but the sweat and the mud and the rough, gritty feel of it under Marco’s calloused hands felt better because of it. They were messy and dirty and a little fucked up, and Marco was falling hard under Jean’s burning touch. 

He pulled in a brief experiment. The sharp groan that escaped Jean’s lips spread a grin across Marco’s face and he tugged again, twisting the hair around his fingers and then  _ pushing _ . Jean ended up sprawling further across the floor and laughed. 

“You are getting the hang of this, Bodt.”

Marco pushed again, Jean’s laughter coming to an abrupt halt as he choked back a surprised moan. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be  _ sucking _ , Kirschtein?”

“I love it when you say my name.”

“Make me scream it then.” Marco couldn’t quite believe the filth that this man inspired in him. 

Jean nodded, and then he was biting the skin of Marco’s thighs  and Marco was keening into the touch. The burn was intense, and the side of Jean’s head was pressing against his dick, sending bolts of pleasure through his body. He sucked dark hickies into Marco’s skin, drawing blood to the surface in deep purple flowers that led from Marco’s knee to the inside of his crotch on both legs. 

When Jean moved off his thighs, and was a scarce millimetre from the tip of Marco’s dick , breath hot and wet and so fucking tantalizing, he stopped. Marco’s mouth dropped open and he opened his eyes, not even realised he’d had them shut tightly in pleasure. 

“The fuck, Jean-”

“Challenge. Accepted.”

Jean’s lips brushed the tip with every syllable and Marco had to concentrate just to think in coherent words. “What?”

“You said, make me scream your name. Challenge accepted.”  He wrapped his mouth around the head of Marco’s head and Marco fell apart before he could could answer. 

The touch was intense, a slow burn of  _ hot-wet-tight _ as Jean moved further down Marco’s cock, pressing his tongue against the underside of it and the rolling his way back up to play with the slit. Both of his hands were wrapped around Marco’s thighs, digging his nails into the muscle and squeezing every time he sucked hard. 

The double stimulation had Marco writhing faster than he’d ever experienced before, and when he opened his eyes and looked down between his legs to see Jean grinning and sloppily licking his way around the width of Marco’s dick he moaned and tightened his grip on Jean’s hair. 

Jean groaned around Marco’s cock. The vibrations that sent firing up and down his body lit every nerve on fire and he suddenly couldn’t control the litany of noises falling from his lips and his skin felt too tight, too slick and too hot under Jean’s ministrations. He could feel the sweat dampening his hair, could feel it curling around his ears, and let his head fall back, abandoning every other sense but touch to the gorgeous being who was dragging him higher and higher into ecstasy with each lap of his tongue. 

But then the pressure around his dick was gone, replaced hands manhandling his jaw to pull his head down and by that  _ fucking tongue  _ slipping into his mouth. 

They kissed until neither could breathe, Jean kneeling up to devour Marco’s mouth. His knee was pressed firmly against Marco’s dick, the rough skin causing just enough friction for it to feel on the amazing side of painful. 

“You should stop holding back your noises,” Jean gasped when they parted between kisses, still grinding his knee into Marco’s dick and letting his own rub into Marco’s hip, “You sound so hot. Tell me what you want. Moan for me?”

Marco’s laugh was raspy and harsh as he tried to find enough breath to talk at the same time. “Jean, do you want me to talk dirty to you?”

Jean looked helpless, but nodded. “I think so,” he shrugged, “I did not know the slang.” 

Marco let his smile fall into a smirk and brushed his lips against Jean’s in a chaste mockery of their previous kisses. The quirk to Jean’s lips spoke his questioning louder than his words could, and Marco cut him off before he could actually speak. 

“I want you,” he purred, “Want to ride your dick, with you laying here on the floor wearing  _ nothing. _ ” Marco grabbed hold of the back of Jean’s shorts and ripped them down to the man’s knees, palming at Jean’s cock where it stood red and stiff. Jean’s breath caught in his throat and he swore, an outpouring of French curses as he lost the concentration to speak english. “You can finger me open, and you’ll feel so good, Jean, so good for me-”

“Mmh, M-Marco, oui,  _ yes _ , I have lube, it is just there, can you?”

“ _ Fuck _ yes, do you have a-”

“Condom, of course, by the lube-  _ mmmh,  _ there _ , fuck.  _ Please, Marco, k-kiss me?”

They were both shaking, muscles taut and breaths coming hot and heavy in the dull silence of the lockers, the walls soundproofed against the thundering noise of the crowds above them. Marco licked into Jean’s mouth, scrambling behind him to find whatever lube Jean had left out. His fingers brushed cool plastic and he sucked Jean’s bottom lip into his mouth harshly once before leaning back on his hands and shoving Jean in the shoulder with his foot. Jean sprawled across the floor again, gaping up at Marco, whose heart was pounding at the sight of Jean looking thoroughly debauched on his back below him. He had no idea what he doing, had never spoken or acted like this during sex before, but something about Jean whipped his senses into a frenzy and he just couldn’t have enough. 

Lube and condom packet clasped in hand, Marco slid onto the floor over Jean. He placed the lube into Jean’s open palm and then sat on his thighs, arching his back so his hands were splayed either side of Jean’s head and his toes were pushed hard into the ground. His legs were spread wide, calves touching the ground from knee to ankle. 

“You want to get those fingers nice and wet for me?” Marco whispered into Jean’s ear, then along his jawline, ending with a kiss to the side of his mouth. Jean’s feet were scrabbling as he kicked off his shorts, sending jolts across Marco’s body when Jean couldn’t move properly and simply writhed beneath him. It was electrifying, having this much control over Jean, having Jean submit to his touches and his words. Normally he wasn’t like this. He was happy to go along with other people’s decisions, liked having guidance and explanations and nicely labelled diagrams. Whatever this was, it was new and hot and Marco never wanted to be anywhere else. 

Jean popped the cap of the lube with fumbling fingers as he tried to draw breath, grinding his dick up against Marco’s with every gasp, and it spilled everywhere. Fingers liberally coated, Jean laughed and patted Marco’s arse, cupping the flesh and squeezing. 

“I need you to sit up,” he drawled, “Or we will not be able to get any further. And I would love to see you come apart on my cock. I would love to see that smile wiped off your face.”

“Better get on with it then.” Marco said, and then Jean was holding him up by his arse and Marco  _ squeaked, _ not expecting the sudden movement or burst of strength. Jean sat up, yanking Marco forwards and Marco instinctively wrapped his arms around Jean’s waist to settle himself. Slicked fingers teased at Marco’s hole and he tucked his head into Jean’s shoulder, whining at the cool touch. 

“You’re a fucking tease, Bodt,” Jean growled, “Do you have any idea what you looked like?” 

“No idea.” breathed Marco, and then he moaned as Jean’s finger breached him. “F-fuck, like that, Jean.” Jean spread Marco’s arsecheeks with one hand, crooking his finger at the same time as he thrust his hips up, the resulting sensation catching Marco’s moan and twist it into a throaty declaration of “Shit Jean, do that again?”. 

The next twist of Jean’s fingers accompanied a vicious thrust of his hips. Marco could feel the grit and residue of old deodorant crunching under his feet as his toes curled in pleasure, arousal sweeping through him in a rough wave with every thrust or grind or biting kiss pressed against his shoulder. His skin was going to be mottled black and blue from Jean’s teeth when they were done and the thought just made Marco hotter. 

A second finger prodded the rim of his arse, warm this time, and Marco nodded once. It slid in beside the first, and even though Marco knew it was coming the pain was a shock to his body. The initial flare of pain faded into a dull ache and Marco realised Jean was murmuring in French under his breath. 

“What?” He started, but he sounded so wrecked to his own ears that it startled him into silence. Jean understood what he was asking and Marco felt Jean’s blush even over the heat their closeness was generating. 

“I said, you are so beautiful,” Jean whispered after a beat, and it was an admission even as he fucked Marco with his fingers, “ _ Je ne peux pas croire que je vous dis cela…  _ _ J'ai envie de toi _ _. Suis-je en train de rêver?  _ You are so  _ vocal _ , are you even real?”

Marco shrugged, and then moved one hand around to grasp the hand Jean was using to open him up. Stopping instantly, Jean leant back to look Marco in the face, worried he’d done something wrong. Marco rolled his eyes and pushed Jean’s third finger towards the two already filling him. Jean’s eyes widened. 

“I’m real,” Marco purred, “And  _ you  _ should get on with it. I’m not gonna break.”

On his last word, Marco shoved his hips backwards, and pulled Jean’s fingers forward, moaning as he was stretched further than he’d been for a long time. He normally only managed two before coming all over his stomach, but this time the aim wasn’t just to get off - he was determined to do this properly, and coming before the fucking even started would slow the whole process down considerably. 

The rough pads of Jean’s fingers inside him curved and stroked, spreading him out and slicking him up, and then they were brushing against his prostate and Marco said, “Shit!”, high pitched and embarrassingly out of breath. 

His heart pounded a heavy tattoo onto his ribcage, almost painful with how hard and fast it was beating, and then Jean was digging into the nerves again and again, every touch echoed by a pulse of blood that Marco could feel thundering through his fingertips and in his throat. 

Jean’s skin was branded by the marks Marco’s fingernails dug into him, despite how short they were, because Marco had nothing else to hold onto but Jean, grasping at his hips and hair and the swell of his arse. He ran his hands everywhere to keep himself grounded, focused on something other than his own pleasure. 

Then Jean’s fingers were sliding out of him and Marco tugged on Jean’s hair, shifting his crotch to move his arse over Jean’s dick, which he could feel like iron smashed against his stomach. 

“W-wait, s’il-  _ please _ .” Jean stuttered. “Condom- We should-” Marco scrabbled around the floor for the packet which he’d dropped somewhere around Jean’s second finger in his arse, and brought it up to his mouth when he caught the edge. Dawning realisation flashed across Jean’s face and he leant back even as Marco ripped the foil open with his teeth, careful not to tear the latex itself. Marco rolled the condom down over Jean’s length, rubbing his thumb across the head just to hear a groan fall from Jean’s lips. 

“How do you want to do this?” He asked, still jerking Jean off with long, slow pulls from the base to the head. “Still want me to ride you, or should I get on my knees-”

Jean cut him off with a deep kiss, both hands on his jaw and fingers curling into the hair behind his ears. “Ride me,” he gasped, each word punctuated by a suck on Marco’s bottom lip, “Je- I, now, Marco. Merde,  _ plus vite _ !”

Marco laughed, then pulled his hand off Jean’s length, wiping the excess lube onto Jean’s abs by dragging his palm across the flexing muscles. The way Jean’s stomach jerked under his touch had Marco transfixed, and he didn’t even realise he was licking his lips until Jean  _ picked him up by his arse  _ and kissed him, lips chapped again his own, and then shifted Marco to sit him on Jean’s cock. 

“The fuck?” Marco gasped, “H-How did you..?” Jean felt huge inside of him, and every shuddering breath Jean took in rattled down his body, twitching his cock where it was almost fully seated in Marco. He could feel every movement, every beat of Jean’s heart thundering through his dick, and Jean was pressed up against him inside and around him and every point of contact between their bare skin felt like fire. 

Blinking away his astonishment at the insane strength Jean had just displayed, Marco pushed at Jean’s chest until he was laying on the floor and they were in the same position as they’d been previously; Marco sank all the way down Jean’s length, hands spread beside Jean’s head and then snapped his hips back up. Just the head of Jean’s dick was still inside of him and Marco clenched his muscles before slamming back down. 

“ _ Putain _ ,” Jean moaned and dug his fingers into Marco’s thighs, squeezing and clawing at his skin, “ _ Plus fort _ , Marco, more!” 

Marco tried to smirk but couldn’t manage more than a panted, “You like it like that? Like it rough?”. Jean nodded, a whine caught in his throat and he thrust up at the same as Marco brought himself down. The action had Marco seeing stars and he swore, but didn’t lose the rhythm he’d started. 

“You feel so good,” Marco said, breathless and laughing a little in pleasure and sheer amazement that he had such a gorgeous man panting and writhing beneath him, “God, how are you so fucking  _ pretty _ ?  _ Mmh _ , Jean, there-  _ fuck _ !”

He stared into Jean’s glazed, blown out eyes as Jean moaned and clenched his fingers tighter with each roll of Marco’s hips. Marco’s thighs were sensitive, he couldn’t bear to wrap tape around them for matches because it  _ hurt _ , and now the pinpricks of pain were rocketing his pleasure higher because they were so bright and harsh and shocking in comparison to the low ache of the stretch in his arse. His arousal crept higher and higher with each drag of Jean’s cock against his prostate. Marco was angled perfectly in this position and Jean was long enough for him to be hitting it with each thrust; Marco was falling apart, and Jean was already undone, eyes shut and eyebrows drawn together as his mouth had fallen open, moans and broken pleas escaping without him seeming to realise. 

“Mmh, Marco,  _ plus fort _ \-  _ nnngh, merde,  _ _ je vais bientôt jouir, s’il tu plait,  _ M-mar-Ah!-rco,  _ mon Dieu _ -”

Marco moved his hands to Jean’s shoulders, loving the feel of the tendons and muscles tensing and twisting under his touch, pushing Jean down more to give himself leverage to ride him harder, faster, to pull off further. 

“Yeah, c’mon J-Jean,  _ mmh _ … ‘M so close… You g-gonna come?” Marco felt his orgasm riding high in his blood, the ecstasy clouding his thoughts beyond  _ yes,  _ and  _ more,  _ and  _ oh, fuck,  _ **_Jean_ ** _. _ The tremble in his voice was nothing compared to the shaking in his legs and arms, and he was pretty sure his dick was harder than it had ever been before, but it still wasn’t quite  _ enough,  _ he needed just a bit more to push him over the edge-

“ _ Uh, merde, putain, je vais bientôt jouir,  _ Marc- o _ o _ - _ OH _ !” Jean shuddered, his hips snapping up so far that he lifted his lower back off the floor and he came, nails dug into Marco’s thighs with so much force he drew blood.

The combination of Jean’s cry and the burst of pain and the harsh pulse of Jean’s dick against his sweet spot, sending a burst of pleasure through every nerve in his body tipped Marco over the edge and he came too, spilling across Jean’s chest and collarbones. His whole body felt white-hot and over sensitive, vision covered in black spots as he blacked out a little. 

It took Marco a solid minute to come back down from the high. 

When he could see again, he realised that Jean was staring up at him, his mouth dropped open and his face flushed a deep red. When Jean noticed that Marco had regained his senses, he raised one eyebrow slowly. 

“You  _ screamed. _ ” He said slowly, voice strangled. “I have never. Ever. Heard anyone scream that loudly before. And… Did you pass out?”

Marco blushed down to his toes and nodded once. Sliding off Jean’s now soft length, he sat in the gap between Jean’s spread legs, trying to calm his breathing to something in the range of normal. 

Jean carefully sat up and pulled off the condom, tying the end off and putting it on the bench behind them. Absently, Marco thought that was kind of disgusting, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t think his voice would work yet anyway. 

“Oh,  _ putain _ ,” Jean swore, “I made you bleed! Are you okay?”

Marco batted Jean’s hands away as he tried to check over the cuts. “It’s nothing. I’ve. Um I’ve had worse. It’s no big deal, love.” Marco realised what he’d said when Jean’s head jerked up and he stared at Marco in confusion. 

“No, it’s just, it’s a British thing, everyone is ‘love’, it’s not- Don’t- ah,  _ cachu _ , don’t laugh at me, you arsehole!” 

Jean tipped his head back in laughter. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and Marco could still feel the strands beneath his fingers. He leant forwards without processing what he was actually doing and twisted a wayward lock of blond around his index finger. Jean stopped chuckling abruptly, and the sudden silence brought Marco back to himself. Embarrassed, he made to move away, but Jean’s hand on his own prevented him from standing up.

“Stay.” Jean whispered. “We both need a shower, and there is likely 20 minutes before the match ends.”

There was a question in his words, a little afraid, slightly shy but more than anything hopeful. The wide, open expression in Jean’s eyes was startling when Marco thought about what they’d just done, when he glanced down at the drying come painting Jean’s collarbones and felt a tug of warmth in his stomach. 

Marco replied with a closed mouthed kiss, brushed like butterfly wings over Jean’s red, bitten lips. 

  
  


The next week saw Jean travelling alone on the Eurostar, cap jammed on his head and his lower face wrapped in a red scarf borrowed off his friend Mikasa. Scotland were playing in Wales, he’d finished his final game and one ticket had been posted to his house the day before (to the address he’d scribbled on Marco’s hip with a permanent marker as he’d licked down Marco’s chest after they’d left the showers, along with his mobile), complete with a scrap of paper ripped from the back of a game programme and a photo of the now healing marks Jean’s nails had dug into Marco’s thighs. 

_ You better come see me after the match, _ _  
_ _ Marco x _

_ p.s . I’ll be waiting outside the red Aston Martin with the number plate B0DT 104 in the staff car park. I’ve always wanted to make out in the back of a car, and these hickies need replacing.  _

**Author's Note:**

> comments fuel porn  
> kudos is love  
> thank
> 
> also fujoshi only betaed the first half, so any mistakes in the porn bit are mine. please tell me if i fucked up.


End file.
